


A Beacon at Sea

by candiedrobot



Series: Optimists of the Most Dangerous Size [2]
Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Fluff, Handfasting, M/M, Marriage Proposal, Pie, Stress Baking, Thranduil the Piemaker, discussions on mortality, pie recipe included!, valentine's day fic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-02-14
Updated: 2015-02-14
Packaged: 2018-03-12 07:55:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,899
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3349502
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/candiedrobot/pseuds/candiedrobot
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Thranduil proposes to Bard, then proceeds to freak out and stress-bake pies in the middle of the night and scare all of his guards.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Beacon at Sea

**Author's Note:**

> Happy Valentines Day from Thranduil the Piemaker to you all! I'll be adding on to this, but for now, have some barduil + pie.
> 
> You can find my recipe for the pie Thranduil bakes in the notes at the end along with any Elvish translations. 
> 
> Enjoy!

The day Thranduil proposed to Bard was one of the happiest days of his life. It made the short list, comprised of the days his children were born, and the day Marion, his wife, had said yes to his own proposal. Though, to say he and Thranduil would be married was not quite correct. There was not a protocol for two kings of neighbouring peoples, when it came to marriage, and they had both assumed it probably wasn’t the best of ideas. Men could be wed amongst themselves historically amongst the elves, who had far fewer qualms about such things, and Bard had lifted the old master of Laketown’s oppressive ban on such things within his own kingdom, but two kings could hardly merge their homes and their assets together like other couples could.

But within Elvish tradition, a part of the marriage ceremony, hand fasting, could be performed on its own, and was a binding of two lovers and a commitment in its own right.

Thranduil had asked for Bard’s hand in this not one month ago, on a chill late winter’s night during one of his many visits to the Woodland Realm.

The Halls had been quiet, a serenity blanketing them even as Bard could sense the wildness of the wood all around them, up into the night and out of the labyrinth of Thranduil’s Realm. Thranduil himself was at his side as they stood together on a small bridge, a hand pressed gently into the small of his back as Bard leaned over a delicately carved railing to watch translucent, sightless fish swim circles across a small pool. They often took long walks like this, through these halls, or winding among the streets of Dale, late at night when the rest of the town was asleep and a bitter chill drove them further into each other’s arms, Thranduil’s cloak wrapped around them both and Bard a solid warmth against his side.

It was a bliss Bard thought all but impossible, a long-forgotten happiness he hadn’t thought to find again.

It was warmer here in the caves beneath the forest. The seasons were changing up in the world, and there was less need to hold each other close, but they still, after three years, found it difficult to be entirely untangled from the other. The casual touch of men had been something unusual to Thranduil at first, something too intimate to display so easily and for so many to see. The way Bard would take his hand at a feast, laying warmth and sensation against him before so many curious eyes; it unsettled him at first, not that Bard caught on so easily, being so unfamiliar to Elvish customs, but after a while, the way it made his own people’s eyes widen as if it was some great scandal, amused him.

The hand in his, the soft kisses to the side of his face, the playful little shoves and hip bumps that showed so much more of Bard’s vibrant personality than words ever could, these became his most cherished treasures, and if they made the people of Mirkwood whisper and look mildly affronted, well, it was an indulgence to a playful and mischievous nature he had all but forgotten he possessed.

The people of Dale couldn’t be happier, it seemed. Thranduil had been worried, as he had confided in Bard long before they made any decision to be public with their relationship, that they would reject it; not because Thranduil was an elf, or a ruler of another people, but because he was a man. Humans could be fickle about such things, and the Master of Laketown had made his opinions on the matter law, and law, if upheld long enough, could imprint in a people’s minds as truth.

But, as it turned out, the previous peoples of Laketown, the new inhabitants of Dale- were happier to simply be alive. They were happier to have each other, and a brave, wise leader who led them out of dragon-fire and into a time of peace, to care about such trivial things as who loved whom. This was a fresh start for Dale.

It was a fresh start for everyone.

Bard shifted so that his hips bumped against Thranduil’s, and Thranduil’s mouth tipped up into a smile. “What do you think those fish are thinking about,” Bard asked absently.

Thranduil tilted his head and regarded the things, nearly invisible if not for the way the water rippled around their slight bodies, blind down here in the caves, even thousands of years after Thranduil’s father had brought light to these halls. “I would suppose,” he said thoughtfully, “that they are considering the sensation of water, cold and crisp as they swim. It could be that they are thinking about their next meal, or what it means to be a fish. It is nearly spring, perhaps they are beginning to think of furthering their species.”

There was movement to his side and he glanced over to see Bard waggling his eyebrows at him suggestively, a grin on his face. Thranduil laughed, unable to help himself. “I assure you,” he continued, still smiling, “they will get up to far less fun than you and I, but it will be beautiful nonetheless, and soon enough, this pool will be swimming with even more life.”

Bard glanced back down at the fish, never breaking their graceful, slow circle around the pond. “Beautiful, eh? Hmm.” He quieted, becoming pensive and calm watching them. “I had never considered the life cycle of a fish to be beautiful. Indeed, I’ve hardly ever thought of them as more than food. Their lives are so short, and then they just end up being dinner, filling the hungry bellies of my children.”

Thranduil felt a tug in the space where his heart resided, sadness, but love as well, and a fluttering of nerves. “Aye,” he said softly. “They have short lives, but they make the most of what time they are given. I…” he swallowed, suddenly more nervous than he could remember being in an age. He steeled himself and forged ahead, staring resolutely forward. “I wish to do the same with you.”

Bard was, as always, in his blind spot. He could not see him turn to face him in his peripheral vision, but he heard the shift of his clothing, the gentle chuckle. “As do I,” Bard said easily.

Thranduil frowned. He had been both dreading and planning this moment for months, but now that it was upon him, he found his mouth unusually dry, his words and thoughts distant. His hand tightened minutely at Bard’s back. Bard turned to face him fully at this, and as he leaned into Thranduil’s line of sight, he looked concerned. “Thran, what is it?”

Thranduil closed his eyes and smiled to himself at the nickname. No one had ever nicknamed him before Bard. He could do this.

“Bard,” he breathed. He removed the hand at Bard’s back and reached into a pocket within his robes. He carefully knelt on one knee. He had read books on the traditions of men and marriage, had even spoken to Bard’s children, asked them for blessing. Of course they had said yes.

But this was unfamiliar for Thranduil, kneeling before Bard like this, the ring he had made for Bard’s finger grasped tightly in his hand, in a delicate pouch of soft velvet, his heart deafening in his ears. He gathered his courage and looked up to meet Bard’s eyes. He removed the ring from its cache and held it up so that it caught the light, its single jewel, one of the glittering diamonds of Girion twinkling in the dim evening starlight. It had a silver band, thick, but carved in intricate spirals with tiny detailed scales. Bard’s eyes widened when he noticed.

“Bard,” Thranduil tried again, “would you honour me by spending the rest of your days at my side? In you I have known a happiness I have not felt in an age. You are a thousand stars in the night sky. You are a beacon at sea. You move me; you shake me to my core. I love you, Bard the Bowman, with every breath and fibre of my being.   _Ni mestathodh?”_

Bard’s eyes were still wide. He stared at the ring. Thranduil resisted the urge to shift uncomfortably. “Does that mean what I think it means,” Bard breathed.

Thranduil inclined his head. “Will you marry me, Bard? That is, it wouldn’t be a true wedding. It wouldn’t be political, nor financial- it would be merely symbolic-”

But before Thranduil could finish, Bard was on the floor beside him, a hand at his jaw and another at the back of his head, and they were kissing. Thranduil made a startled noise as he was cut off. Bard’s mouth was warm against his, and he soon slumped in that grip, kissing back, lips finding a home against Bard’s.

Bard finally pulled back, out of breath and laughing on what breath remained. His eyes twinkled, though whether with mirth or tears, Thranduil could not be sure. “Can we do this, truly?” he asked, voice hardly above a whisper.

Thranduil smiled back at him. “We are kings, _Ind nín_ , we can do whatever we please.”

This wasn’t entirely true, but they could certainly do this, Thranduil thought as, laughing, they came back together in another kiss and Thranduil slipped the ring onto Bard’s waiting finger.

 

A month had passed, and spring was swift and gentle in its arrival, like a babbling brook in a green wood. The chill of winter had departed without a fight, and the news had spread of Bard and Thranduil’s engagement. They planned two separate ceremonies, one amongst Thranduil’s people in Eryn Galen, and one to be held in Dale, alongside the more official marriage of Kili, King Under the Mountain and Tauriel, who would also have a more private affair back in Erebor.

It was the night before the first of the festivities, and Bard, having fallen asleep to the sound of Thranduil’s steady heartbeat and the gentle light of the bewitched stars above, awoke to find himself alone.

He had a brief moment of panic, startling out of a dream of dragon-fire and ruin (not altogether uncommon for him on days when his nerves _weren’t_ alight and fluttering), and reached out, patting the bed sheets frantically, wondering if Thranduil had been spirited away to some dank dragon’s hoard. But after several deep breaths and a moment or two for his thoughts to realign, he remembered where he was. His panic subsided, but only somewhat. Thranduil was still not where he should be.

Bard threw his legs over the side of the bed and winced when his bare feet met the chill of the stone floor. He noticed that Thranduil’s silken over-robe was still hanging on a delicate rack near the door, so he grabbed that, drew it over his shoulders, and stepped into the long hall, quiet as he could be among elves who heard the distant breath of a deer in a glade a mile away. He paused at the end of the hall, cracking open the door to Bain and Tilda’s room.

Sigrid was enamoured with an elf just as he was, a young archer with a talent for music as well as for making his daughter smile, and, at the age of nineteen, he had finally allowed her to stay with him on their visits to Mirkwood. She was a young woman now, and Merenon, the elf in question, had been dually warned by both himself and by Thranduil of what would happen to him if he ever made Sigrid unhappy. He was sure that they were wrapped up together in Merenon’s home, warm and happy, and the thought made him smile, that his daughter had found someone to share her life with as well.

Bain and Tilda were asleep in their own beds, Tilda snoring loudly and Bain muttering to himself moodily. Bard laughed under his breath. His children had never been easy sleepers. It had been a nightmare when they all had still shared a bed together, as much as he sometimes missed it.

He shut the door quietly and made his way out into the Halls Proper, wondering where Thranduil could have gone. It was well and truly mid-night, and even the most nocturnal of the elves of the realm had finally retreated back to their beds, eager to witness the historic ceremony the next day.

He wandered here and there, stopping briefly to watch the little clear fish in the pond where Thranduil had proposed to him. He stood on the bridge and smiled, watching their circles and the ripples in the water.

“My Lord Bard,” came a surprised voice from behind him, startling him far less than it once might, but still enough to make him stiffen. He turned to find two Mirkwood guards, dressed in the rustic greens and browns of their station. They were on patrol, it would seem, and in truth, Bard was glad to see them.

“Tatharien,” he said in greeting, recognising the elf who had spoken, a woman with soft brown hair pulled back into a long braid that lay over her shoulder. He inclined his head in deference and she did the same.

“Is all well, my lord?” She paused, and a thought seemed to cross her mind as the confusion faded. “Are you, by chance, looking for our king?”

His relief must have been evident, for Tatharien smiled and a light twinkled in her eye. “Have you seen him?” Bard asked hopefully.

“Aye,” she said, and turned to her companion, speaking softly to him in elvish. He nodded and bowed to Bard as he crossed over the bridge to continue his watch. Tatharien met his eyes again. “He passed by us not more than an hour ago, without so much as a glance or a word. I can take you to him, if you wish. I know where he was headed.”

Bard frowned, relief warring with yet more worry. “Was he alright, did it seem?”

Tatharien winced. “I wish I could say. My Lord Thranduil is… well known for his temper and his moods. We did not ask again, upon being once unanswered.”

“Ah,” Bard said. He understood her caution. Thranduil’s moods were indeed a thing of legend. But that did not explain why he was in one, the night before their wedding. Bard’s dread only increased as she led him through the halls, following a path he did not recognise. “Where are we going?” he asked.

Tatharien took a sharp turn and the sudden scent of something sweet and aromatic assaulted his senses and made his mouth water. “To the kitchens,” she said softly. “I’ve seen him come here before, in the dead of night when no one else is around, but…” She glanced at Bard and then quickly looked away again. “Not in a long time.” She stopped. Bard did not need an escort the rest of the way.

She gave him a look he could not quite discern, somewhere between compassion and concern, but then it was gone just as quickly as it had come. “Good luck,” she whispered, turning and leaving him outside the kitchens, unsure of what he was to walk in on.

Bard pushed open the great wooden door, peering around the corner. The aroma was strong now, some fruit-filled pastry baking in the huge elven hearth.

And there, on the floor, dressed in his shimmering green night gown, which pooled around him like an enchanted lake in the night, sat Thranduil, staring ahead at the oven, or nothing at all. Bard wasn’t sure which option concerned him more.

“ _Meleth_?” he spoke softly, not wishing to startle Thranduil, something that seemed frighteningly possible at the moment. Thranduil turned to face him, eyes wider than usual, and redder than usual as well, with a bright spot of flour upon his nose and a lost expression on his face.

“Bard?”

Bard crossed the kitchen in a few strides, kneeling by Thranduil’s side, wrought with concern. Thranduil took the hand offered to him but did not move otherwise. “What are you doing awake,” he said listlessly, heavy brow furrowed and still with that seemingly unnoticed spot of flour on his nose. “We have a big day tomorrow. You should be sleeping.”

Bard laughed. “I’m going to pretend you didn’t just tell me that while sat on a kitchen floor at mid-night looking like you’ve just lost a battle with a sack of flour.” He reached up and tucked a stray wisp of flour-dusted hair behind Thranduil’s ear, even as the elf frowned at him. “What’s wrong?” he asked softly.

Thranduil stared at him for a long while in that maddening way of his before answering. “I am feeling a bit lost,” he admitted. I am caught in a whirlwind of thought, trapped in a prison of my own worries.” He paused here, glanced down at their hands, folded together in his lap. The rest he said in barely a whisper. “I had promised Legolas, after his mother died, that I would not remarry.”

Bard’s heart dropped into his stomach. “You’re having second thoughts.” His mouth felt too dry, his worst fears rising in him even as he told himself to keep them at bay.

But Thranduil turned to face him so quickly that Bard swallowed around the lump in his throat and met his eyes with his own widened ones, blinking at the suddenness of the proximity. “No! _No, ind nín_ , not that. Never that.” He kissed Bard’s hand, raising it to his lips and Bard breathed a sigh of relief.

“Then what?” he asked. “What is it that troubles you?” _What is it that drives you to get up and leave me alone to bake sweet treats in the middle of the night?_ He hadn’t even known Thranduil could cook. Then all at once, he understood. “You wish he were here.”

The pain on Thranduil’s face confirmed it.

“Oh Thran,” he unfurled his fingers against Thranduil’s lips and stroked the side of his face. Thranduil trailed his own fingers down Bard’s arm, rubbing against the dusting of dark hair and fingering the hem of his own robe where it lay against Bard’s elbow.

“I do not seek his permission, understand,” he began, voice low and soft, deep in his chest where his emotion lay, “but I would have his blessing.”

Bard glanced at the fingers tracing lines and abstract patterns on his skin, resisted the urge to shiver. “Do you think he would not approve?”

Thranduil shook his head. “No, it is not that. He respected you; I could see that much, which is more than could be said of any other man he has ever met. But the thought that I may not see him for another hundred years- that by that time you will be…”

His voice broke and his eyes widened even as his jaw steeled. He was breathing more heavily than before. Bard’s heart broke, in that instant.

They had discussed this before, but only ever just barely touching on the subject of Bard’s mortal life and his inevitable death. But even though Bard knew this was his future, that it was unavoidable and he had made peace with it, he had never before considered the idea that he may never again get to meet Legolas, Thranduil’s only child. He was still off finding himself and healing after the Battle of the Five Armies and the heartbreak that could so easily destroy one of their kind. Thranduil had sent him into the North, and since he was an elf, it could easily _be_ a hundred years before he returned to Mirkwood, to see his father again. He may never even know of their marriage, of what Bard, the dragon-slayer of Laketown, the dirty mortal man with the keen eye and the three brave children, had come to mean to his father.

“Thranduil,” he said quietly. He wasn’t sure what else to say. His heart ached for Thranduil.

The elf-lord smiled, sadly though it was, and glanced back to the oven cooking away behind him. “I used to bake pies with Legolas, when he was young. My wife was a fine baker- a Silvan pie maker, the best in Greenwood, before she became the queen. She showed me how to do it. Berries and fruits, golden flaky crust with rose water and sweet cream… I have never been as good as her, but when she passed, I kept baking, at least for a while, for Legolas loved her pies.” He laughed gently to himself, as if remembering something fond. “Sometimes he would wake up in the middle of the night and cry for his mother. I would carry him to the kitchens and we would sit on the floor, as we are now, and wait for our pie to finish baking, covered in flour and his hair all a mess because he couldn’t stop touching his braids with his dirty hands.”

Bard laughed along with him, struck by the image of a tiny Legolas with blonde hair sticking out in all directions, his pointed ears white with patches of flour. “I wish I could have met him then,” he said.

Thranduil smiled fondly and sighed. “As do I. He would have loved you. I feel he still would, were he here.”

Bard reached up and licked the pad of his thumb, wiping the smudge of flour off Thranduil’s nose and smiling.

Thranduil laughed and pulled him in for a gentle kiss which Bard returned in kind. “I love you,” Thranduil murmured when he pulled away.

“And I you. I cannot promise that everything will be alright, or that Legolas will return before I have to leave you, but until I do, I will take care of you, and I will leave you with so many fond memories of our life together, that you can fill a book with them and let him read exactly how great our love was.” Though unshed, tears were glistening in Thranduil’s eyes as he nodded. “He can come to know me that way, if by no other.”

“What did I ever do to deserve you, Bard, light of my life?” Thranduil asked with wonder.

Bard laughed. “Well apparently you bake pies! Speaking of which…?” He glanced at the oven and Thranduil startled.

“Ai, that’s right, I nearly forgot!”

Bard watched as Thranduil busied himself with the pie, removing it from the oven and allowing the aroma of fresh baked fruit and sweet rose to inundate his senses. He closed his eyes for a moment and allowed the heartbreak of Legolas’ absence to truly wash over him. He did not know if there was anything more he could do to ease Thranduil’s pain, though he desperately wished there was. But he would sit on the floor and eat pie with him tonight, and tomorrow they would have the Elven hand-fasting ceremony, and then soon, the celebration in Dale, and Bard would do everything in his power to make Thranduil as happy as he could, for as long as he was able.

“My sweet pie-maker,” he said as Thranduil set the steaming pie between them and gave him a silver fork. Thranduil smiled.

**Author's Note:**

> Translations:
> 
>  
> 
> Ni mestathodh?: "Will you marry me?" Silvan dialect. See previous work in this series for my notes on the use of Silvan language/dialect.
> 
> Ind nín: "My heart," Sindarin.
> 
> Meleth: "Love," Sindarin.
> 
>  
> 
> A note on marriage:
> 
> I'm drawing on Pagan/Wiccan marriage traditions as well as traditional Elvish ones and those of western culture for the race of Man. I do what I want! They're not getting married in a legal sense, so their ceremony is not going to follow the strict traditions of either culture, but will focus heavily on hand-fasting. And yes, the wedding/celebration is still yet to come!
> 
>  
> 
> Recipe:
> 
> http://candiedrobot.tumblr.com/post/110957605835/pie-recipe-to-accompany-my-valentines-day-barduil
> 
> Thank you for reading!


End file.
